The Adventure of the Burgeoning Blogger
by Irillia
Summary: First John grows a spine. Then he finds another flatmate. A flatmate who just so happens to be a beautiful woman. With Mrs. Hudson and the mysterious Irene Adler lending a "helping" hand, will Sherlock be able to woo his blogger back again?
1. Chapter 1: Richly Deserved

Chapter 1: Richly Deserved

_John. We're out of milk. _

_-SH_

Dr. John H. Watson rolled his eyes. Sherlock was just in the other room. Why couldn't he call out to John like a normal person? Picking up his mobile from where he'd placed it on the edge of the tub, John began to type.

_I'm in the middle of a well-deserved bath. Must it be now?_

It was only an instant before his mobile pinged with a reply.

_I want cereal, so yes._

_-SH_

There was only one response to that, of course. _Get it yourself, dammit._ And on that note, John switched his mobile off and tossed it to the bathmat with a happy sigh.

* * *

Sherlock, sprawling on the living room sofa as was his habit, regarded his mobile with distaste. Recently, this had been happening more and more: John ignoring him, John disregarding his requests. It was a disconcerting turn of events. Even Mycroft had noticed it. "So, little brother," he'd said, "your flatmate's finally growing a spine?" There had been further jibes, which Sherlock had not deigned to grant space in his mind palace. No need to waste space on his precious hard drive with Mycroft's needless negativity. But he couldn't deny the trend. John was, more and more, not available to look after Sherlock's needs.

A week later, Sherlock attended a case alone for the first time since John had moved in with him. "Honeymoon period over?" quipped Donovan; Sherlock turned away without a word. Only later did he realize this might have betrayed the emotion he was trying so desperately to hide.

At least it was an engaging case. A dead man had surfaced in the Thames, the pockets of his overcoat stuffed with living rats. Ten days later, a dead woman had surfaced in a similarly rat-infested overcoat. The papers were calling it the Case of the Killer Cat and sensationalizing it horridly. God, Sherlock hated the papers, their never-ending quest for bigger and bloodier crimes. They had no appreciation for subtlety. Of course, it didn't help that they kept reprinting the awful photo of him in the Hat. Back then, though, John had been right beside him, wearing a hat just as silly…

Sherlock sighed and then cast a furtive glance around to make sure no one had heard him. At least the case kept him busy. Yes, the cases kept him entertained. The cases would always be there for him.

* * *

John wandered down Baker Street, his heart full of that peculiar gladness that comes with a flawless blue sky. Work in the surgical ward had been busy but fulfilling and he had a date that evening. It seemed to him that the sun had never burned so brightly nor the London air smelled so fresh. Even the pigeons, dirty little birds that normally irritated the crap out of him, appeared friendly and charming. Before he knew it, he was humming an old show tune of the sort that had driven Harry batty in their youth, and nearly skipping down the sidewalk.

It surprised him, then, to see Sherlock practically moping along towards him. Sherlock's head was nestled in the collar of his enormous coat, and the ubiquitous scarf was knotted tighter about his pallid neck than the temperate weather would seem to merit. In fact, the bones were jutting out of his face even more sharply than was usual, and dark circles marred the pale skin beneath his eyes. Sherlock had lost both sleep and weight. Concern smote John like a blow to the heart.

"Sherlock!" he called, hustling forward. "Sherlock! Are you all right?"

The answer was as harsh as anticipated. "Of course I'm all right, you fool," said Sherlock. "Why must you be so _raucous_ in the middle of a public street?"

"For the love of— I was only expressing concern, Sherlock. It's something people _do._"

"Well, do it somewhere else." And with that, Sherlock slammed the door to 221B shut, leaving John out on the sidewalk.

* * *

John wandered around for a quarter of an hour, attempting to regain the bliss he'd felt just a moment before. Amazing how a single conversation with Sherlock could depress him so thoroughly. He knew he shouldn't let Sherlock get to him that way. After all, the man was a high-functioning sociopath or what-have-you. A little surliness around the edges was only to be anticipated. But John couldn't help but remember Harry's words, the last time he'd seen her. "Don't be a doormat, you fool," she'd said. "Don't let him walk all over you like that. It's idiotic."

Why was it that all the important people in John's life only ever insulted him?

* * *

_Author's note: Hello, Irillia here! I'm new to this whole fanfiction thing and would love some help and guidance. Please stop by the comments; it'll make my day!_


	2. Chapter 2: Ashes

Chapter 2: Ashes

Sherlock Holmes was on his hands and knees in a smelly alley outside of Piccadilly Hall. A new corpse had surfaced, again with rats in its pockets. And one of the rats had born the grainy traces of tobacco ash. The problem was that it had been—horror of horrors!—not a tobacco he was familiar with. Strange enough that a live rat had been sprinkled with tobacco ash, let alone an _unfamiliar_ tobacco ash. It was almost as if the killer was taunting him with this clue he couldn't quite identify, deliberately baiting the consulting detective.

It was the fault of those damnable papers, for certain. They'd been after him from the start with this whole Killer Cat case. First had come the reports of the strange circumstances surrounding the deaths—_rats in his pockets? whaaaat?_—a newspaper sensation all on their own. But when bumbling Scotland Yard had given the case to Sherlock, it just got worse. The Hat Picture was published, followed by increased traffic to his and John's blogs, followed by much discussion of his little monograph about tobacco ash. God, Sherlock could just about kill those journalists, meddling little snits that they were. At least he'd gotten a lead from the mud on the victims' shoes. That was what had brought him here, crawling on hands and knees in the stinking muddy alley. It couldn't be too long now before he'd solve the stupid case and then everything could go back to normal.

Normal. Back when John had gone to cases with him. John would have been on hands and knees right beside him, marveling at Sherlock's methods. Sherlock sighed gustily. Normal, it seemed, was gone.

* * *

John sat on a bench in East London, near his old flat. He cradled the cup of coffee in his hands, seeking its warmth against the chill of the grey, cloudy morning. A pigeon pecked near his feet and, irritated, John shooed it away. He couldn't understand why Sherlock had just left that morning without so much as a word. It was a Saturday, after all, and John had the day off work. He'd have been delighted to go gallivanting around with Sherlock, searching for clues. But instead Sherlock had just stomped off, wrapped in that childish coat like he always was…

John's date had gone badly the previous night. Maybe that was why he was so gloomy.

"Hullo, mate!" It was Mike Stamford, the old friend of John's who'd first introduced him to Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello," said John. Something occurred to him. "I know it's early, Mike, but I'd really like a pint right now."

"Hey, it's five o' clock somewhere," said Mike cheerily, and off they went to the nearest pub.

The pigeon pecked desultorily at John's abandoned coffee.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was a perceptive woman. She knew when her tenants were "having a little domestic," as she always put it. And she knew that John and Sherlock's latest "domestic" was a bit bigger than "little." So, she decided to bake cookies. Cookies never hurt a situation; in fact, they generally improved it.

At half-past three in the afternoon, Mrs. Hudson set out to buy flour. She was back by three-fifty.

At four, Sherlock returned and stomped upstairs to sulk.

At half-past four, Mrs. Hudson discovered that her oven was no longer functioning properly when it overheated, incinerating the three dozen cookies she'd been baking. She called the repairman, who promised to come first thing the next day.

* * *

At half-past four in the morning, a very tipsy John ambled his way up the steps of 221. He was in the vaguely happy mood that comes with having done something worthwhile, though he could not remember what, precisely, he had done. By the time he reached the doorway of 221B, he was regretting that last pint. And by ten o' clock the next morning, when he awakened with an aching head, he was seriously regretting it.

Sherlock was out and about in the kitchen, clattering up a storm. John could hear pots banging and clanging, and what sounded like a beaker shattering against the floor. This was the last straw. Staggering out of his bedroom, he only barely remembered to grab a dressing gown before storming into the kitchen.

"I've had it with your damned experiments," John snarled. He was working up for a good row, going over his grievances in his mind. _Woken up too early. Heads in the refrigerator. Damned sociopath sniping at everyone we meet. Girlfriends insulted every time they come over._

"I was just making you breakfast," said Sherlock. He was wearing his wounded face, those crystal eyes ever-so-large, the wide mouth withdrawn. Realizing he was staring, John shook his head angrily and stomped over to the stove.

"You're burning the eggs," he growled. "God, you can't even cook breakfast like a normal human being."

When he turned around the kitchen was empty.

* * *

Downstairs in 221A, the repairman had just left and Mrs. Hudson was mixing up her first batch of cookies. She hummed as she worked, deftly incorporating the flour and butter by hand. Everyone loved Mrs. Hudson's cookies. The boys would love them too. In a little time, they'd have patched up whatever was going on between them. Everything was going to be all right.

* * *

_Author's note: Woohoo, Chapter 2! What do you think, guys? How could I make this better?_


	3. Chapter 3: Relocation

Chapter Three: Relocation

John Watson found himself hiding in a coffee shop to avoid Sherlock for the second day running. This time, however, he was suffering a massive hangover, and was all worked up for a row he hadn't been able to have. He felt pent-up, the pressure of the last few days buzzing between his ears like a horde of rabid bees. Of course, that could also have been the result of the queue at the coffee shop. It was the Hedgehog Café, his very favorite, and he usually could order his coffee without enduring the ordeal of waiting in line. At half-past-ten on a Sunday, however, there was no avoiding it. And so John stood, tapping his foot, while the barista held a long, in-depth conversation with a striking black-haired woman at the counter.

Finally the barista gave the woman her coffee. John released a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding and prepared to place his order.

As the black-haired woman turned around, coffee in hand, John couldn't resist glancing up at her face. She really was very striking, he decided. The long dark hair framed brilliant green eyes, and her skin was as pale and flawless as the inside of a seashell.

"Good morning, John," she said, and sashayed out of the shop.

John was astounded. In fact, he realized he was wearing the expression of open-mouthed amazement that he usually reserved for one of Sherlock's more stunning deductions. How had the woman known his name? He would remember if he had met her before…

"Sir? Please place your order. We have people waiting in line." The barista's voice was sharp and nasally, and John turned back to him only to find that all memory of what he'd intended to order had fled his mind. After a few agonizing moments, he was forced to step out of line and wait through the whole queue again.

He rubbed his temple. It was going to be one hell of a day.

* * *

Sherlock lay huddled on the sofa in his dressing-gown as was his habit. He couldn't comprehend it. He'd done everything he could think of to make John happy—preparing breakfast, refraining from smoking, even picking up the living room a little bit. And yet John had still been angry.

The smell of scorching eggs reached his nostrils. Ah yes, he'd forgotten to turn the burner off. Shrugging quietly, Sherlock hunched a little deeper into his dressing-gown and prepared to retreat into his mind palace. But for once, those crystal gates eluded him and he remained firmly trapped in the real world.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. It was going to be one hell of a day.

* * *

"Mike? Hello, this is John Watson."

"John! You're up early after the night we had." The voice on the other end of the line was so cheery it made John's stomach curdle.

"Yeah, about last night," said John. "I was wondering… er… did I do anything unusual? I have a vague memory of signing a piece of paper, or something."

"You met a new flatmate, remember?" said Mike, and John's hand tightened reflexively on the smooth surface of his mobile.

* * *

_Hi all, Irillia here! Sorry for the extremely short chapter, but I'll be updating EVERY DARNED DAY this next week. Yup, you heard me right. Every day. Woo hoo!_

_Hey, see the nifty little box right down there? Wanna type a __**review**__ in it for me? That would be lovely! Thanks!_


	4. Chapter 4: Burnt Toast

Chapter 4: Burnt Toast

_Special thanks to __**Guest**__ and __**batsareamazing**__ for reviewing! You guys are awesome._

* * *

By the time John had made his way back to 221B, he'd convinced himself that a move was just what he needed. Living with Sherlock was tough. Between the gunshots, the kitchen experiments, and Sherlock's violent mood swings, there was seldom a quiet moment in the flat on Baker Street. John would enjoy a little more peace with his new flatmate, no doubt. Besides, it wasn't like he'd stop being Sherlock's best mate. They'd still be together all the time for the cases and such. No doubt they'd still be mistaken for a gay couple, though hopefully much less frequently. They'd still be friends. Best friends.

Deep down inside, John knew it wouldn't be the same. But the situation had grown intolerable. It was time for him to do something about it.

His new flatmate was something of a mystery. John couldn't remember anything about him, but apparently John and Mike had run into him at the bar sometime around the fifth pint or so. He was another old friend of Mike's, a man by the name of Drew who was looking for someone to share the rent. It was odd to move in with a total stranger, of course, but John had done it before. And he'd met Drew, after all. He just didn't remember anything about it…

Which was odd, because John didn't usually lose his head so quickly over alcohol.

In any case, _normal_ flatmates didn't run into each other all that much. John was sure he and Drew would get along just fine.

John was halfway down Baker Street when he saw the smoke. It was black and bilious, pouring out from the window of 221B in a thick dark cloud. John began to sprint, grateful for the umpteenth time that Sherlock had "cured" him of his psychosomatic limp. Sherlock… Where was Sherlock? Was he up there with the fire? And why in the _blazes_ did it suddenly smell like burnt toast?

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was in the cozy little kitchen of 221A. Her cookies had come out of the oven and she was icing them carefully. A draft blew in from the window and she sneezed. Was that burnt toast she smelled? Must be Sherlock and another one of his infernal experiments…

* * *

John pried open the door to 221B and raced to the kitchen. The toaster must have shorted out, and now thick flames spread from the countertop around it. Luckily they had an extinguisher in every room and the fire hadn't spread far. By the time he'd successfully put out the fire, however, John was in a foul mood. The Formica countertop was charred and ruined, and the cupboard directly above it was beyond repair. With the addition of the white foam from the fire extinguisher, the kitchen looked even more disastrous than usual.

This was it. He'd had it. He'd had it with Sherlock and his stupid experiments. He'd had it with Sherlock's complete inability to function like a regular human being. And for God's sake he'd had it with everyone's assumption that they were a couple! Even Mrs. Hudson! "Having a little domestic," indeed!

"SHERLOCK!" John bellowed. "SHERLOCK, WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Is the caps lock really necessary, John?" drawled the familiar voice from the living room.

Sherlock lay on his back on the sofa, one hand idly running through his hair, a slight smirk on his face. The hem of Sherlock's dressing gown reached a foot or so below the knee, revealing the pearly white skin of his ankles. John, feeling himself flush, grew angrier still. He wanted to hurt Sherlock, this deeply flawed man who was so perfect and so infuriating. And it occurred to John, as he stood in the doorway, that he held the ultimate weapon this time.

"I've had it, Sherlock. I'm moving out."

From the hall outside the door of 221B came a scream and the sound of breaking glass.

* * *

By the time they had escorted Mrs. Hudson inside 221B and swept up the plate shards and broken cookies, Sherlock's initial shock had subsided into an enormous lump in the back of his throat and the intense desire to cry. He was able to feign listening as John went over his grievances (which took a while), and even managed to pat Mrs. Hudson half-heartedly on the shoulder as she tearfully headed back to her own flat. Really, he was numb. There was a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach, and he wanted nothing more than to lie on the sofa and watch crap telly for hours.

No, that was an incorrect statement. Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to laugh and say he was just kidding. Sherlock wanted John to smile and ask about the progress of Sherlock's latest case. He wanted John back—_his_ John—_his _ blogger.

Instead, he "listened" to John some more, and then helped John pack up his stuff, and then loaded the boxes—there were only a few—into a cab. John gave him the address of his new flat and, dazed, Sherlock forgot it instantly. He was Sherlock Holmes, the worlds' only Consulting Detective. He never forgot anything that he wanted to remember. But today, he made an exception. He didn't feel like a consulting detective. He couldn't feel anything at all.

John turned back at the door of the cab. Sherlock could tell from John's signature tics, the little things Sherlock had noticed about his flatmate and catalogued away during their months together, that John was anxious. Something in John's posture suggested to Sherlock a desire for forgiveness.

"We're still best mates," said John, his wide gray-brown eyes—what color were they really?—fixed on Sherlock's. "I'll still come on all your cases and stuff. And drop by 221B to say hi to Mrs. Hudson and all. Just a little distance, that's all I need. I'll still see you all the time…" It was phrased like a statement, but Sherlock heard the question in the words.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Of course." He put on the blandest of his smiles, and tried to disguise the tightening around his eyes. "Just like old times."

But it wouldn't be just like old times. Sherlock's only friend was leaving him, and nothing would ever be the same.

* * *

_Did this give you the feels? I got the feels writing it, that's for sure. (Hey, wanna tell me about your feels? Like in a review? *wink, wink*)_

_Also, which is better: shorter chapters that update more frequently, or longer chapters with greater time between updates? I could do either…_


	5. Chapter 5: The Woman

Chapter 5: The Woman

Merci beaucoup to **Lady Juse** and **Saavikam69** for reviewing!

* * *

The train pulled into the station, disgorging its passengers in a hurried rush. Most hustled away, elbowing past one another as they headed towards the grimy streets of London. But the last one to leave took her time, pausing to correct her lipstick in the reflection of the train window, smoothing the folds of her off-white dress. Her battle dress.

The woman stepped onto the platform, surveying the city before her. It had been quite a while since she'd last visited, and back then she'd had no time for sightseeing. But now she was here to stay. She was here to tackle this city head-on, in fact.

Oh yes, Irene Adler was back in London.

* * *

John Watson stood next to the three battered boxes that held his belongings. The cabbie had been unwilling to stick around while John took his things upstairs, and instead had unceremoniously plopped all of John's worldly goods onto the dingy sidewalk. Irked, John shook his head and turned towards the building that would be his new home.

It was a pleasant apartment complex, nice but not _too_ nice. Firmly within his price range, thank God. He'd been relieved, when he'd visited the apartment earlier that morning, that his drunken self had at least ascertained that much before signing the lease.

Still, John couldn't help but feel a little uneasy with the move. A stranger for a flatmate was a bit much to ask, and (though he tried not to think about it) he felt bad for leaving Sherlock. The poor man would be awfully lonely now, in his flat all by himself. _But of course Sherlock still had Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft, and Lestrade… Not like me._

John shook his head again, trying to dispel this last thought. He couldn't deny it. He felt sad for himself, too, leaving Sherlock behind, moving out of cozy 221B. But of course they'd still see each other all the time. Friends didn't _have_ to live together, after all.

_It won't be the same…_

Blinking rapidly, John hoisted the first of his boxes up the stairs. The move would be good for him. Besides, it didn't help to dwell on things.

The door to 324A Conan Street was ajar when he arrived. He kicked it open with anticipation, panting slightly under the weight of the box. He'd not met Drew, his new flatmate, during his brief visit that morning, and frankly the suspense was killing him. Another old friend of Mike Stamford's. He'd had such luck with the last one.

John set his box down on the worn coffee table and glanced around him. "Hello?" he called.

"Ah, you've arrived," said Drew, stepping out of the kitchen.

Long dark hair. Piercing green eyes. Seashell-smooth skin. It was the woman who'd greeted John by name in the coffee shop. John was flabbergasted. One thought, however, rang clear in his muddled mind.

_Bloody hell. I'm no good with the ladies._

* * *

Sherlock had firmly vowed not to leave 221B on the day John departed. He'd promised himself a day on the sofa to recuperate, and, yes, to wallow a little bit. But his calm was early disrupted by an insistent knocking on the door. Rolling over, he shut his eyes.

"Sherlock!" It was Mrs. Hudson's voice. Pulling a pillow over his head, Sherlock ignored her.

"Sherlock! I need your help!"

There was no ignoring that. Leaping from the couch, Sherlock flew across the room, his dressing-gown trailing behind him like a cloak.

He wrenched open the door, out of breath. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, you silly man. I just needed you to open up," said Mrs. Hudson, slipping past him into the kitchen of 221B.

"I'm not really in the mood for visitors, Mrs. Hudson."

"Of course not, dear. But I'm not leaving until you eat something."

"I'm not hungry."

Mrs. Hudson pushed the tall man down into a chair and handed him a plate. On it were two chocolate-chip cookies, still warm. "Eat."

He looked at her, for a moment—just a moment—letting the pain he felt show on his face. Immediately Mrs. Hudson winced, and he hid his emotions again.

"Eat, damn it," she said, and, grudging, Sherlock obliged. When Mrs. Hudson was moved so far as to swear, there was little he could do to stop her.

* * *

"Er," said John, staring at his new flatmate. "You must be Drew. Hello."

"You don't remember me?" Her voice was surprisingly low for a woman's, and surprisingly sultry. John felt his stomach turn over.

"No, I was quite drunk when we, ah, met."

"Indeed you were." Drew took a seat in an overstuffed armchair and scrutinized John through narrowed eyes. Since she was so obviously examining him, John reluctantly allowed himself to do the same. Recalling all he could of Sherlock's methodology, he turned his gaze on his new flatmate.

Drew was taller than he was, although it wasn't obvious when she was seated in the armchair. Her hair was as thick and dark as Sherlock's, and her eyes held the same knowing quality. Her eyes were gorgeous, in fact. And she was a woman. There was no denying that.

John forced his eyes shut. For a split second, he envied his former flatmate. How easy it would make things, to be asexual or married to one's work or whatnot. How nice, to never be drawn to another person by forces you never quite understood.

"You were expecting a man, weren't you?" asked Drew, and John could hear the teasing in her voice. It sounded almost flirtatious. He pushed the thought away.

"Yes," he said. "Drew… androgynous name and all that…" _Androgynous? That's not what I meant to say! Tongue-tied like a fool… effing _woman_… what have I gotten myself into…_

"Sit down, John Watson," said Drew, smiling lazily and indicating the other armchair. "Let's get to know one another."

* * *

_Hi guys! Sorry for the wait—I was out of town. But now I'm back, with lots more adventures for our mutual friends! I've also upped the rating to "T," just in case. I mean, Mrs. Hudson _did_ swear and all. -Irillia_


	6. Chapter 6: A Moth to a Flame

Chapter 6: A Moth to a Flame

_Thanks to __**VesperL2**__ for reviewing! Your wish is my command._

Irene Adler was a perceptive woman. After all, she would hardly be such a successful adventuress if she couldn't infer people's inner thoughts from the signs they revealed on the surface. So when she came across an old friend of hers sitting alone on a park bench in the middle of the afternoon, it piqued her curiosity.

"Hello, John," said London's only professional dominatrix.

"Irene! What are you doing back?"

"Oh, just up to my usual tricks." She lowered her eyelids and watched for the flash of recognition as John caught the double entendre.

"Of course," said John. _Good man_, thought Irene.

"What about yourself? How are you doing?" she asked, and was surprised to find that she was genuinely concerned to hear the answer. She'd never paid much attention to John; it had always been Sherlock who had drawn her gaze, Sherlock who attracted her as inexorably as a moth to a flame. But there was something in John, a quiet amiability, the way he wore his emotions on his face without the intention to deceive. Lord knows he was easier to talk to.

"Oh, I'm all right," said John without much conviction. He started to speak and then paused, looking down at his hands. "I'm, ah, a bit concerned about Sherlock at the moment."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I, ah, moved out of 221B two days ago and he hasn't been returning my calls," said John.

"Of course not, you aren't around to answer his phone for him anymore," Irene said lightly. Inside, however, she was startled, even alarmed. A lover's spat? John out of 221B? Could it be possible?

"Lestrade says he hasn't been out on our most recent case, either," said John.

"Now _that_ is peculiar. I might just have to pay him a call."

"Oh, will you? I'm sure you'll cheer him up." John beamed, and Irene couldn't help but smile as she bid him goodbye. He reminded her of a sweet, cuddly teddy bear, or maybe a puppy. Charming qualities, if not really what she looked for in a man.

Then again, she'd never been much into men.

John sat on the park bench after Irene had left and continued to ruminate. He really was worried about Sherlock, who tended to forget to eat while sulking. But now that the Sherlock situation was temporarily out of the way, he had time to worry about his more pressing concern. Specifically, his new flatmate.

Drew Sanselle was a mystery. Save for a bit of chitchat the night he'd moved in, they'd not exchanged more than a few pleasantries. He felt like he hardly knew her, and worse, like she was deliberately withholding information about herself just because she knew it drove him mad. The flat was entirely clear of any memorabilia save for a few well-worn items of furniture in the living room, but she'd told him the first day that she'd picked those up at a secondhand shop—no clues to be found there. The refrigerator had been empty before he'd placed his things there, and the door to her room was always shut. All in all, there was not a hint as to where she'd come from or what she did to earn her keep.

Yet despite all this, John got the sense that she knew everything about him. Every time they spoke she seemed to be peering through a window into his head, weighing every emotion, calculating what made him tick. Frankly, it reminded him of his first week or two with Sherlock, and those instances since when the consulting detective had paused to deduce him. An unnerving coincidence, given the woman's physical resemblance to Sherlock. But at least she wasn't _really_ deducing him. Thank heavens for that.

"Knock knock."

Sherlock groaned and pinched his eyes shut. It was just like the Woman to say "knock knock" instead of actually knocking.

His hand was on the doorknob before he'd had time to think, and suddenly he realized what he was doing. He hadn't accepted any visitors except Mrs. Hudson since John had moved out. But he was wildly curious about Irene, and the mere fact that she was here, two years after he'd saved her from execution in Saudi Arabia, had been enough to excite him out of his stupor.

He shook his head. Who was he kidding? Of course he would answer the door. Irene was a mystery more enigmatic than any case he'd ever tried to solve.

Irene looked well, in a long deep-blue dress and simple pearl earrings. He glanced at her surreptitiously, searching for clues, but as usual they were few and far between. _The dress is brand-new… she bought it in London… she's been in London for three days… she's staying in a hotel on 53__rd__ Street._ Not bad, considering this was Irene Adler he was trying to deduce.

"Hello, Ms Adler," he said, his voice dropping low before he could help it.

"Hello, Mr Holmes," she said, pushing past him with a smile.

When he came into the sitting room, she was already seated, ankles crossed, eyes narrowed above her smile. Briefly he regretted the general disarray of the room and his own state of undress. Ah well. He was wearing a dressing gown, at least. Besides, he could only think of such mundane things for a split second before his attention was captured once more by the Woman.

"Thanks for saving my life, by the way," she said.

"Not a problem. Hate for a good mystery to die unsolved."

She chuckled. "Oh, you'll never solve me, Mr Holmes. Not since the mystery today is you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you." She leaned closer, her eyes trained on his. "I ran into your blogger this afternoon. He's worried."

"Worried?"

"Says you haven't been answering his calls, haven't been going to your cases. Just sulking in 221B, all alone."

"If I had known you'd make such boring conversation, Ms Adler, I'd have left you outside."

"Now, now, don't get snippy. We can discuss you once in a while."

"But…"

"I'm not your mystery anymore, Mr Holmes." She raised one eyebrow and Sherlock heard the subtext as surely as if she'd spoken it aloud. For a moment it surprised him, even pained him, to hear her dismiss her former affection for him with such certainty. But then the moment was gone. Sherlock Holmes was not one to daydream about what could have been. And besides, she was still a mystery.

"Now then," said Irene. "What's your most recent case?"

"It's the string of murders that's getting such attention from the press."

"Ah yes, the Killer Cat one?"

"Must you use that insufferable nickname?"

They talked on for a while, Irene trying to pump him for information, Sherlock doing his best to thwart her. It was a tennis match, just like always, and for the first time in a few days Sherlock Holmes was glad to be alive.

"Now then," said Irene Adler, standing up and stretching luxuriously. "Get into one of your ridiculous getups, Mr Holmes, and I'll call dear Mr Watson for you."

"What?"

"Aren't you going to see Lestrade about that case?" Her eyes were wide, innocent, and Sherlock realized that's what she'd been getting at all along. _Outmatched again._

"Fine," he said, letting his irritation show on his features just to make her laugh. With an exaggerated sigh he stood and headed for his bedroom. Something occurred to him, though, as he was leaving. "Irene?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

He couldn't bring himself to say it, not quite. But Irene seemed to know what he meant. "You're welcome, Mr Holmes," she said, and with a dry chuckle dialed John's number.


	7. Chapter 7: Back on the Job

Chapter Seven: Back on the Job

_Thanks again to __**VesperL2**__ for reviewing! Fangirling is always welcome here._

John could not have been more ecstatic to receive Irene's call than if she'd told him he'd won the lottery. His enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by Sherlock's surly disposition. It appeared as if John was not yet forgiven.

"So, ah, any new ideas about the case?"

"Hard to know, isn't it, since we haven't spoken with Lestrade yet," Sherlock said acidly.

John found this a little much to bear. He'd been well within his rights to move out; there was no need for Sherlock to carry a grudge. "Since when have you relied on _Lestrade_ for ideas?"

Sherlock cast him an annoyed glance. "I have thirty-seven ideas regarding this case, actually. I'd just rather keep them to myself at the moment."

"That's a first."

They walked the rest of the way to Scotland Yard in silence.

Irene Adler hung up on Lestrade and sauntered downstairs to 221A. It was just like Sherlock to take off before she'd even left the apartment, let alone been introduced to the landlady. Luckily, Irene was a woman well accustomed to making her own introductions.

"Hello. You must be Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson was an older woman with sassy short hair and a gentle voice. "Why, hello. Who might you be?"

"I'm Irene Adler," said Irene, using her best meet-the-landlady voice. "I'm an old friend of Sherlock's."

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

"And John's," added Irene hastily.

This seemed to be more what Mrs Hudson expected. "Oh, you'll have to come in and tell me all about it, dear. I've just put the kettle on."

Greg Lestrade set down his mobile and stared blankly at the donut he'd been eating before the call. The woman had reportedly phoned just to warn him that Sherlock was on his way to Scotland Yard. Not that he didn't appreciate the warning, but it was a strange call. He hadn't thought Sherlock knew any women outside of work. Heck, he hadn't thought Sherlock knew _anyone_ outside of work.

Except John Watson, of course.

But when John and Sherlock arrived, it was all too clear that the two were in the middle of some sort of disagreement. John looked positively close to tears, and Sherlock was even more stony-faced than usual.

_I don't want to know_, thought Lestrade tiredly. _I'm just glad Sherlock's back on the case after his three-day break. Maybe we'll finally start making headway. Though of course I've also requested that other consultant…_

He cleared his throat. "Another body's turned up. I've managed to keep this one away from the papers. It was found on the riverbank like the others, in an overcoat with rats and so on."

"May I take a look?" asked Sherlock with exaggerated politeness.

Lestrade sighed and headed for the morgue. _Here we go again._

Sherlock surveyed the body with something approaching on good humor. Irene was back in town, John looked gratifyingly penitent, and there was a serial killer on the loose.

"We've left the body as it was," said Lestrade.

"Except that you moved it to the morgue," snapped Sherlock. Secretly, he was delighted not to return to the grey and rainy streets of London, but it wouldn't do to let Lestrade know.

As it was, Lestrade barely reacted to Sherlock's scolding tone. "It was discovered this morning, just south of Pont 37."

"A woman in her mid-thirties, killed by a blow to the back of the head," said John. "Two, maybe three days dead."

"Four," said Molly Hooper, dressed in her usual lab coat. "The water slowed the decay." She smiled at Sherlock, a smile that most men would no doubt classify as 'pretty'. "Glad to see you back, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not dignify her comment with a response, choosing instead to direct his scrutiny to the body. The tang of decomposition was in the air and most details of the face and hair were unrecognizable, but the woman was dressed in an overcoat, just like the others. Gingerly, he opened a pocket. It was empty save for a few rat droppings.

"The rats ran off when we retrieved the body," said Lestrade, apologetically.

Sherlock glowered at him and examined the coat. It was long and dark. Identical to the coat he was wearing now, in fact, and nearly as clean. "The coat, Lestrade."

"Huh?"

God, the man was clueless. "Was the coat wet?"

"Ah, no. No, it was not. Neither were the rats."

Placed on the body this morning, then, after the previous night's rain. But who would place a coat with live rats in its pockets on a dead body?

"Any new additions to the missing-persons report from four days ago?"

"We're in London, Sherlock," said Anderson. "The missing-persons report is miles long." But Sherlock wasn't listening. An old body, dressed in a new coat. A coat just like his. Had a murder been committed at all? Why on earth—

"Knock, knock." A woman's voice, not one he recognized. Certainly not Irene's, though it had the same dry lilt, as if the speaker was just one step ahead of the rest of the world. Impatiently, he shook his head and stared at the body. But "Hello, John," said the woman, and at that Sherlock _had_ to turn around.

She was a tall woman, dark-haired, who doubtless fulfilled the narrow requirements for most men to deem her "beautiful." He narrowed his eyes. _Nonsmoker, no pets, orphaned, one sibling. Estranged from said sibling. Expensive clothing, cheap shoes. Avid texter. Plays piano and violin. No perfume, minimal makeup, same brand of lipstick as Irene. Works as a—hmm, now there's a puzzle._

But all of this, as it sped through Sherlock's mind, was eclipsed by one thing: John knew this woman, and he did not.

He cast a glance at John, who was visibly shaken. Was John… infatuated with her? "Hello, Drew," John said. Aha, so this was the roommate, then. Sherlock glanced back at the woman. Drew. Of course. Not a gender-specific name. No way John could have known. Nevertheless, Sherlock's stomach tightened. No one would be accusing John of homosexuality now, rooming with a woman like that.

At his side, John was still stammering. "Drew… What, ah, brings you to the morgue this fine morning?"

Drew gave him more of a smile than the comment really merited and turned her piercing gaze on Sherlock. "Oh, just dropping by to see the star performer."

"Hello, Ms Sanselle," said Lestrade, extending a hand with just a hair too much eagerness. Were all men so _obvious_ with their infatuations?

"Hello, Detective Inspector," said the woman named Drew Sanselle. "You called?"

_Hey guys! I have a fandom question. Is the organization Lestrade works for in the BBC canon still Scotland Yard, as in the original ACD stories?_


	8. Chapter 8: Human Polygraph

Chapter Eight: Human Polygraph

_"Hello, Detective Inspector," said the woman named Drew Sanselle. "You called?"_

"Yes, since you were in town we thought we'd make use of your services," said Lestrade with a typically bland smile. "We've got a tricky case at the moment. Could use a little help."

"I'd be happy to oblige." The tall woman smiled, but her icy eyes never left Sherlock.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was struggling to maintain his composure. This woman, John's roommate, was another _consultant?_

"Now, now, Mr Holmes, don't get upset," said Drew. With a languid stretch, she settled herself on the edge of an unused autopsy table. "I'm not infringing on your little consulting-detective shtick."

Sherlock put on his blandest smile and attempted to hide his relief.

"I fill a different niche, you see," said Drew. "I'm more of a human polygraph."

"A what?"

"A human polygraph," said Drew. "You read clues, Mr Holmes. I read people. People like you, for instance."

Lestrade, standing alone at the other end of the room, grinned unabashedly. This was going to be good.

"I pick up on the slightest changes in your posture and the direction of your gaze," Drew continued. "I watch your complexion and the dilation of your pupils. I gauge your pulse from afar. Body language is a code like any other, Mr Holmes, and I've devoted my life to deciphering it."

"How fascinating," drawled Sherlock. "Perhaps you could tell us just what mood our dead friend is in, then." He gestured to the corpse laid out on the table behind him.

"Oh, dead people are boring, Mr Holmes. It's the live ones I prefer."

"Hmm, just as well. Necrophilia is rather illegal," Sherlock said, turning back to the body. He was doing his best to maintain an air of nonchalance but the woman had shaken him badly.

"Mrs Hudson is worried about you," Drew said softly.

"A safe statement, as she's usually worried about me," said Sherlock, peering at the lining of the corpse's coat.

"She's worried about you, and you're worried about me," Drew went on. "Or rather, you're worried about John. Hmm, interesting."

Sherlock cursed himself. He'd started at John's name. God knows what sort of mistaken conclusion the woman would dream up.

"It's alarming to you, isn't it, that he's moved in with a woman."

"It's alarming to me that you can't take a hint and be quiet."

"When will you tell him just what he means to you?" She had moved closer to him, speaking almost in a whisper now.

Sherlock turned to face her. "You admitted yourself that you won't be 'human polygraphing' our dead friend here. There's no purpose to your remaining."

"On the contrary, Mr Holmes. My purpose is to perturb you."

Lestrade stepped in. "Actually, Ms Sanselle will be helping with the investigation. She's going to be interviewing suspects."

"Ta ta, boys," said Drew, and sauntered out the door.

"She's on special loan from the higher-ups in the Government, and we all ought to treat her with courtesy," continued Lestrade, a warning in his eyes.

Sherlock wished to scream, to cry, to throw a tantrum like a toddler. He wished, more than anything, to deliver an ultimatum: Her or me. Get rid of her, or I'll leave and never come back. But he knew that any such statement would be useless. And, looking at Lestrade, it occurred to him that should such an ultimatum be delivered, Lestrade might well choose the human polygraph over the consulting detective.

Though his chest ached, Sherlock turned quietly back to the corpse. It seemed like now that John had moved out his mind palace was destined to become cluttered with emotions.

Mrs Hudson was not, in fact, worrying about Sherlock. Well, maybe she was on some unconscious level. She always worried about Sherlock, after all. But at the moment, she was strolling through London without a care in the world. It had been a long time since she'd had a young friend to go shopping with.

Mrs Hudson didn't have much in the way of family. One sister in Surrey, that was it, and she had never really gotten along well with Adelaide. She had a few close friends—an elderly gentleman who was her partner at Bridge Club, the convivial cat lady from next door, and of course Jenny, who she'd grown up with. But, aside from her tenants (darlings that they were) Mrs Hudson eked out a pretty lonely existence.

So when Irene Adler had expressed a desire to go shopping with her, of all people, Mrs Hudson had leapt at it.

Her new companion was quite sweet, thought Mrs Hudson. Though Irene kept odd hours and seemed a little too _knowing_ at times, she was an excellent conversationalist. It had been many years since someone had really tried to get to know Mrs Hudson, and she had already found herself opening up more than she'd expected. Irene had been interested in Mrs Hudson's political views, and was very sympathetic about the half-flirtation with that shopkeeper that had never really worked out. And Irene, unlike Sherlock, was content to discuss her own life as well. She'd had a difficult family background, it seemed; in fact, she was talking about it now.

Smiling, Mrs Hudson refocused her attention on her new friend.

John was a bit concerned about his old flatmate. Sherlock seemed to have taken Drew's teasing too seriously. He was withdrawn and brusque with Lestrade, and exited the morgue without sharing a single theory.

"Sherlock! Where are you headed?"

"Go home, John." And, downtrodden, John obliged.

The flat at Conan Street was a little more cheerful. Drew had managed to beat him home, and was rearranging the living room of all things. "Trying to make it a bit homier," she said when John walked in the door.

It was quite homey, actually. The armchairs were arranged as if for actual conversation rather than dressing-gown-clad brooding, and little table lamps here and there cast a friendly glow. Someone had scrubbed the kitchen until it gleamed, and a shining coffeepot occupied a place of honor on the counter. She'd even hung tartan curtains over the windows.

"Looks nice," said John.

"Thanks," said Drew with unusual sincerity. "I was just going to go out for Chinese, you want to come?"

"Sure," John said, grabbing his coat. As he stepped out the door, it hit him that here he was, getting dinner with his flatmate—and no one could think he was gay.

Sherlock stared blankly at the patterned wallpaper of 221B. He should be out on the case right now, but somehow, he wasn't in the mood.

There was no getting around it. He'd have to call Mycroft.

"Wanted a chat, did you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," snarled Sherlock, aware that he was taking his distress out on Mycroft and unable to care. "I want to know who this Drew Sanselle person is. Some government type. Should be in your jurisdiction."

There was a pause on the line. "You're out of your league, brother," said Mycroft.

"Don't be silly. I just want some information on her. What does she do? Why is she wasting her time on Lestrade, of all things?"

"I think she's helping Scotland Yard just to take a break and rest up a bit. As for your first question… I can't say."

Sherlock hung up in disgust. Then he threw his mobile across the room for good measure.

"Feeling petulant, are we?" said Irene Adler as she walked in and headed for her bedroom.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. He'd forgotten the Woman had moved in. But it would be good to have someone to share the rent with.

Besides, she was just a flatmate.

_Hey all! I've expanded the summary blurb a little bit. New look, same great content! ;)_

_-Irillia_


	9. Chapter 9: Suspects

Chapter 9: Suspects

Irene Adler, 221B Baker Street's newest resident, was thoroughly enjoying herself. Sherlock's dowdy little landlady had a keen eye and a quick wit, contrary to Irene's expectations. In fact, Irene found herself dropping by 221A more and more for conversation and a cuppa. After all, her work was mostly in the evenings. And Mrs Hudson rarely seemed very busy.

It helped that she and the landlady were both rather lonely, Irene reflected. Though Irene would never admit her need for human companionship, she still liked a little company now and then. She wasn't Sherlock, after all. And Mrs Hudson was a good friend. Most women had never cared much for Irene, viewing her as competition; most men only desired her. Which she encouraged, as it was her job. But it didn't make for very many lasting friends. Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, never seemed to want anything from her save her company.

At least, Mrs Hudson didn't want _much_ from her.

"Dear, you are going to move out… I mean, if John…"

Irene smiled and laced her hands around the teacup. "Don't worry, Mrs Hudson. I would never do anything to keep John Watson from returning to his proper place at Sherlock's side."

"Oh good. I worry, you know, that if John ever did want to move back… Though of course he doesn't seem to…"

"Mrs Hudson, we both know Sherlock's not an easy roommate."

"Yes of course, but John…"

Irene sighed. "I meant that I'll happily move out once my financial situation is a bit more secure." She could kick herself for spending money so freely a few years ago. The limousines, the designer dresses, the capacious flat with its marble mantelpieces. She was determined to put a bit away now. At some point, after all, she'd be forced to retire.

"Oh dear," said Mrs Hudson. "If another flatmate runs out on Sherlock…"

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere until we get John to return."

"You sound so sure of yourself, dear."

Irene leaned forward. "It's clear that Sherlock and John belong together. But Sherlock's social skills aren't the greatest. I've no doubt he'll need our help to lure—I mean, invite—John back."

Mrs Hudson poured more tea. "I like the way you think, dear."

Sherlock was rudely awakened by the raucous ringing of his mobile. He'd been rudely awakened by a lot of things recently. Alone in 221B save for Irene's occasional and acerbic companionship, he found sleep far more appealing than ever before. It turned out, somewhat to his surprise, that little sounds could be quite annoying when one was trying to doze off. Yesterday afternoon he'd been up and halfway across the room, handgun at the ready, only to realize it'd been merely a backfiring bus that had awakened him.

_Stupid_, thought Sherlock, and picked up his mobile.

It was Lestrade, which was good, since Sherlock would probably have thrown the phone across the room otherwise.

"Hello."

"Sherlock! There's a lead!" Lestrade was breathless.

"Oh?"

"They found another body."

"And?"

"There was DNA on this one!"

"All corpses contain DNA, Lestrade." But Sherlock could see what Lestrade was getting at, and it made his heart quicken.

"No—DNA from another person. We think it's the killer but there's no guarantee, of course. The sample's just gotten back from the lab!"

"Well, and what did the lab have to say?" Sherlock was up and pacing, only belatedly realizing that he ought to tie his dressing gown closed, or else put on some pajamas.

"The DNA belongs to a Caucasian woman between the ages of 25 and 35. We can't say more than that without further analysis."

"Ah," said Sherlock. "I'll be at Scotland Yard directly."

He hung up and sat down slowly, with the unnatural stillness of one who has suffered a sharp shock. A white woman between the ages of 25 and 35. He was leaping to conclusions— it was ridiculous— just because she had moved in with John didn't mean— goddamned _sentiment_— but he couldn't deny it. He suspected Drew Sanselle.

It was just a hunch. He no evidence to back it up save his own dislike of Drew. It was weak of him to even suspect her, he knew, and the knowing tore him apart. There was a leak in the roof of his mind palace, and sentiment had seeped in with the cold London rain. He loved John—he did—whether as friend or brother or lover, Sherlock couldn't say. And therefore he hated Drew. Where did this leave him now? Suspecting an innocent woman, a woman who doubtless had committed no crime besides being more charming and lovable than Sherlock was, and luring John away. But even that was a falsehood. There had been no luring. John had left of his own free will, before he even knew Drew. Quietly, Sherlock placed his head in his hands and let the enormity of what he'd lost engulf him. It was only a moment before the tears came.

It was a quiet and grim Sherlock who made his appearance at Scotland Yard, some hours after he'd told Lestrade he'd be there.

Sherlock arrived midway through the questioning of a suspect. Drew Sanselle was in her element, prowling to and fro, eyes focused on the young woman before her in the interrogation room, while John Watson loitered in the periphery as per usual. Sherlock's outburst of emotion back at 221B had left him oddly calm and empty, and so it was no trouble for him to walk right up to John and say hello. Only the teensiest bit of pain bled through his voice, and John thankfully did not seem to notice.

"There you are!" said John with evident relief.

"Here I am," said Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, I just— There've been so many murders lately, and I— When Lestrade said you'd called several hours ago, I just—" And to Sherlock's intense surprise, John Watson burst into tears.

"There, there," said Sherlock, patting John awkwardly on the back.

"I'm sorry," John repeated. He pulled himself together and stepped away from Sherlock. "I've just… been rather tense lately. Anyway, Drew's combing through the suspects."

"So I see."

"Yes, I'm sorry. I tried to get Lestrade to wait but—"

"For God's sake stop apologizing, John. It's not your fault I'm late. And besides, there's only so much damage that Drew woman can do."

"What was that?" said Drew Sanselle with a flirty smile as she stepped out of the interrogation room. She was overdressed as always, this time in a long black dress that revealed altogether too much neck. Sherlock watched with grim detachment as John hastened to dry his tears. When Drew placed a hand on John's shoulder, Sherlock was hardly able to quell a faint roll of his eyes. She was just so obvious, all of her little tricks, her un-subtle subterfuge. In fact, she couldn't be more obvious if she _threw_ herself at John. And yet John seemed to be falling for it. A knot welled up in Sherlock's throat, and he coughed to distract himself.

"Well," said Drew. "Unfortunately, all of these suspects appear to be innocent." She smiled, cat-like. "Lestrade says I'm to accompany you next time you go out investigating."

"How lovely," Sherlock deadpanned. "Tomorrow at noon, then? Shall we make it a date?"

At his side, John coughed slightly.

"Works for me," said Drew. "But you ought to be ashamed of yourself, two-timing on that lady you're living with."

"Huh?" said John Watson.

Drew's smile widened. "Give him a good sniff, John. Don't his clothes smell faintly of perfume?"

"Oh yes, Irene Adler moved in a while ago," said Sherlock, absent-mindedly. Something had occurred to him. If they all were going searching tomorrow at noon…

"A while ago?!" said John.

"Oh, he didn't tell you?" Drew said. "Aren't you best mates supposed to share things like that?"

For a split second, Sherlock treated her to the full power of his glare. The pitch of her voice, the hand on one hip—she was teasing, trying to get a reaction. He hadn't had to bother with something like this since that little girl had pestered him back in grade school. Then again, maybe Irene Adler had spoken to him this way once, long ago. No doubt the normal people called it "flirting." In any case, Drew's peculiarities with regards to him were of insignificant importance compared to her peculiarities with regards to John Watson.

And even that was of less significance than the case.

"Forget tomorrow at noon," said Sherlock. "We're going investigating right now."


	10. Chapter 10: Experiments

Chapter 10: Experiments

John Watson found himself somewhat confused. For starters, it had been somewhat of an emotional morning for him, what with Sherlock's prolonged absence. Then Sherlock had shown up looking so fragile, like he was holding something awful within himself. And now Sherlock was forging ahead in his usual old way, looking as animated as ever.

It was the case, John decided. The case had transformed his companion.

Frankly, it was about time. The Killer Cat case had stretched on for too long and had become too bizarre. It bore the stench of the tabloids now—"DEAD WOMAN WITH RATS IN POCKETS! Turn to page 3 to read the _sensational _account!" John was ready for it to be neatly completed so he could write it up for his blog. Though of course he hadn't updated his blog since moving out of 221B.

Stifling an internal sigh, John returned his focus to Sherlock. After apparently gaining some sort of insight into the case, the tall man had flagged a taxi outside of Scotland Yard. Now all three—Sherlock, John, and Drew—were crammed together in the bench seat. Sherlock had shoved himself up all the way against the window, presumably to avoid touching John. Drew, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind the close proximity. Her knee was firmly pressed against John's, and one high-heel-clad foot brushed John's ankle anytime the cab took a right turn. It was a bit irking, really.

_No it's not,_ John corrected himself. _Of course I'm attracted to women! Of course I am!_ And, recognizing this for the ridiculous self-reassurance that it was, he forced his thoughts to other things for the remainder of the ride.

Sherlock Holmes glared at the taxi driver with annoyance. He was driving too damned slow. And did John always smell this nice, or was he prettying himself up for that Drew woman? Either way, Sherlock was grateful when they finally reached the muddy banks of the Thames.

It was mid-afternoon, a grey rainy day in late October. Sherlock squinted at the blank sky and then hurried right two hundred yards from the roadway. Sure enough, there sprawled another body, tucked up behind some bushes at the edge of the river. Sure enough, his prediction had been correct. The body was a few days old from the look of it, but it hadn't been there that morning, if he'd recognized the pattern correctly. A man this time—mid-thirties—coffee drinker—oh, there'd been a blood feud in the family. That was interesting. Sure enough, a stab wound under the left ear. Utterly unconnected to the deaths of the other Killer Cat victims.

Someone was taking old bodies, dressing them in coats like Sherlock's, filling the pockets with rats, and dumping them by the Thames. And the person was running out of drowning victims to dress up and reposition. The use of the stabbing victim was just plain sloppy.

Sherlock squatted in the mud and gazed blankly at the sky. He couldn't claim to know much about human nature, but this seemed to surpass all mere weirdness and venture into the preposterous. Really, was the person committing a crime at all, if they merely used someone else's dead bodies for their mysterious experiments?

Experiments. Why had he used that word? There was nothing in the placement of the bodies that implied scientific investigation. But that was what had occurred to him, the only idea that had surfaced in his mind. Some sort of strange social experiment. And here he was, the test subject.

Well, there was nothing for it. He'd have to go back to Baker Street and spend some time in his mind palace. Sherlock stood carefully, keeping his coat out of the mud, and turned around.

John and Drew had positioned themselves on either side of him while he had squatted in the mud. They stood there now, John with a dazed expression on his face, Drew with her typical knowing look.

_Like an angel and a demon, perching on my shoulders_, thought Sherlock wryly. John was the angel, of course, and the thought made his stomach twist. He set his face into careful blankness and headed back to the cab. Let Drew snipe at him if she wanted. He had his armor up.

John bore the long ride back to Baker Street in silence. When Sherlock stepped out of the cab, it was all he could do to suppress a sigh of relief. The man had been so silent, postulating not a single theory, keeping his marvelous deductions to himself. _If only the case weren't so flummoxing_, thought John. _Surely he'd be doing better with—with the move, and everything, if the case were a little more normal._ But John knew that wasn't true. Sherlock loved the abnormal cases more than anything.

John looked up from his reverie to see Drew scrutinizing him through narrowed eyes.

"John Watson," she said. "Would you like to go on a date with me?"

The formal invitation flummoxed him, as did his beautiful flatmate in her long black gown. But there was only one answer he could give.

"That would be lovely," said John Watson, and the rest of the trip back to Conan Street passed in silence.

_Hey guys! It's been a while since I've gotten a review… is something wrong? Do I need to pick up the pace a little bit? Cut down on Sherlock's moping time? _

_…Hello?_


	11. Chapter 11: Date Night

Chapter 11: Date Night

_Three reviews, oh my goodness! It felt like Christmas morning when I logged on to . Thanks, guys!_

**_Guest_**_: I can't tell you if they'll work it out; that would give everything away!_

**_Luke_**_: Guess you'll just have to wait and see ;)_

**_sdale05_**_: Oh good, I'm so glad._

The first thing John noticed about their table was the single flickering candle. The second thing he noticed was the vase with one long-stemmed red rose.

_Oh god,_ he thought, and cast a furtive glance around the restaurant. Sure enough, couples occupied every table in the place, down to the pair of teenagers making out in the corner booth. With a name like Chez Amour, John should have known that the atmosphere would be inclined towards the romantic. Struggling to swallow his nervousness, he turned to his date.

Drew Sanselle was resplendent in a long red gown and corresponding lipstick. She folded herself neatly into a chair seemingly without effort. John nearly tripped trying to settle into the chair across from her.

The waiter came and delivered their menus, only to retreat immediately afterwards. John almost called after him with a question about the special, about the chef, about _anything_ just to postpone the necessity of making small talk with his date. But the waiter sailed smoothly into the back of the restaurant and John was left alone like the proverbial fish out of water.

Drew rested her elbows on the table and interlaced her fingers, regarding John through sharp green eyes. "Usually people get to know each other a little bit before cohabitating," she said, and John found himself turning red without quite understanding why.

"I thought you were a man," John blurted.

"Would that have made a difference?"

"Well, usually I'd choose as a flatmate someone of the gender opposite my sexual preference," said John, immediately regretting the comment. _Sexual preference? Where did that come from? Though heaven knows it's been on my mind recently…_

"Oh, so you are heterosexual, then."

"Yes of course I am!" John said, stumbling over the words in his effort to get them out quickly enough. His ears grew hot.

Drew smiled and traced a finger over the gilt edge of the menu. "Hmm. Personally, I consider myself… heteroflexible."

"Well, I should let Irene know," said John half to himself.

"Are you trying to set me up with a friend of yours, John Watson? My goodness, don't you realize this is a _date?_" Drew wiggled an eyebrow and laughed, exaggerating the word beyond all seriousness. Relieved, John found himself laughing. He hadn't wanted this to be a date; with that realization out of the way, the rest of the dinner should be easy. Besides, Drew seemed to find his un-smoothness amusing and his lack of interest obvious.

Because he really wasn't interested in her.

Relaxed at last, John smiled and asked his flatmate what she was going to order.

Outside the restaurant Chez Amour, a cold and brutal rain pelted down. London's streets were dark, and all those with warm houses to return to had long since headed home.

Except for a lone man with a black umbrella.

Had Sherlock realized his resemblance to Mycroft, he would doubtless have left the umbrella at home. As it was, it kept him dry, save for the occasional gouts of rain that a restless wind sent splashing against his ankles. He hardly noticed. His attention was fixed on the couple in the lighted window of Chez Amour.

John looked nice, dressed in a natty blazer—a departure from his usual jumper. He was laughing and talking with the woman across from him and, from the look of it, he didn't seem to be bothered by the candle on their table.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he'd come. It had been a fairly passable day; there was no real reason to rub salt in his wounds. Something, though, had sent him out into the night to watch John and mourn. Perhaps it was just that 221B was so lonely, with Irene and Mrs Hudson out on some sort of girls' night or something.

But Sherlock knew that the real reason was something deeper, something he feared to acknowledge even to himself. It was the ache inside him, the ache that had lingered ever since John left. Sherlock didn't have much experience with human companionship, but it struck him that this ache was deeper than one would really expect from the departure of a friend. Mrs Hudson had taken trips in the past, and once nearly evicted him, and he had never felt this way before. And Lestrade had gone through the occasional hissy fit. None had bit this deeply.

No, Sherlock could no longer deny that what he felt for John was something more than friendship. There was no harm in admitting it to himself, after all. It was too late to do anything now.


	12. Chapter 12: The Game is On

Chapter 12: The Game is On

Sherlock lounged on the soiled sofa of 221B Baker Street, using his laptop for the sole purpose of wasting time.

First he checked his email (no news). Then he checked the comment threads on his website (nothing interesting). Then he wandered over to John's blog, but it hadn't been updated since their last case together. Sherlock slammed his laptop shut with all the maturity of an impatient two-year-old and cast an angry glance at the wall.

It was no good. He'd have to solve the case.

He didn't really think Drew was the Killer Cat. But oh, how he wanted to. He wanted to believe she was a criminal. He wanted her to be blamed. He wanted with every fibre of his being to condemn her, to watch the thick steel door of a jail cell slam shut with her inside. He hated her, and it was irrational, and he couldn't forgive himself for it.

The only way out of this muddle was to solve the case. There was no getting around it. But his mind, that painstakingly calibrated instrument, was impaired. Sentiment had worn down the edges and tarnished the gears. Sherlock fidgeted with the hem of his dressing gown and wished that he could aim a fire hose at his mind palace, blast away every trace of Drew Sanselle, and perhaps of John Watson as well. More than anything he wished for his old clarity, the feeling he used to get as if each successive thought were a puzzle piece falling into place. With his current emotional state, he had no chance of making any headway on the case.

Unless…

He sprang up and started for the door. But no, it wouldn't do to leave too hastily. He could use a coat, and maybe some trousers. And an assistant, besides. He hesitated for a split second, and then knocked on the door of the room that once had belonged to John Watson.

"Come with me, Ms Adler. The game is on."

John Watson was developing a serious coffee habit. It was the stress of work that made him crave caffeine, he decided. In any case, he'd become quite the regular at the Hedgehog Café. Though that esteemed coffee-selling establishment was a little too close to his old lodgings for comfort…

Indeed, there came Sherlock now, with Irene Adler of all people by his side. John resisted the urge to duck into the café and paused to study his former flatmate for a minute.

Sherlock was animated, his hands darting through the air as he explained something or other to a bemused Irene. He must be on the case, John thought; he was wearing his consulting-detective coat and looked quite focused. In fact, he was hailing a cab. Heading off to adventures in parts unknown, no doubt.

John Watson heaved a sigh, wondering why he couldn't bring himself to track down his former flatmate and have a chat over dinner or something. They were still best mates, and it had been a while since they'd seen each other. There was absolutely no reason not to send Sherlock a quick text, arrange a meeting somewhere.

Unless, of course, the whole snafu with Drew had made him realize that he held a deeper affection for Sherlock than he dared admit.

Nooo, that couldn't be it.

But John Watson, turning away and hastily dabbing his eyes, knew that it was.

_Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait—I've had a heck of a time with school lately. (Physics is gonna kill me for certain.) But with any luck, I'll have another chapter up tomorrow—school gets out early, hallelujah._


	13. Chapter 13: Case Closed

Chapter 13: Case Closed

"It's her. I know it's her."

In seven long years of associating with the consulting detective, Greg Lestrade had never before seen Sherlock so excited. His hair was tousled, his scarf was in disarray, and the look in his eyes bordered on manic.

"Slow down, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "Who?"

"Drew Sanselle is the Killer Cat," Sherlock said, slamming a hand down on Lestrade's desk while staggering sideways into a chair. He smiled at Lestrade, a toothy grin that made the long-suffering detective inspector edge backwards.

Lestrade sighed. After nearly a month, little headway had been made on the case, and he'd hoped Sherlock had an actual lead. Meanwhile, the people at the genetics lab were being painstakingly slow about their analysis and Drew Sanselle, the wild card "loaned" to him by his higher-ups at the agency, hadn't managed to interrogate her way to a solution. Now Sherlock seemed to have gone certifiably off his rocker. Lestrade massaged his throbbing temple with one hand. This whole John Watson business had been exceedingly ill-timed.

"I hate to mention it, Sherlock, but don't you think you're a little, er, biased?"

"Why would I be biased, Lestrade? The cases are all I have. The cases are all I've ever had. You think I would let that be polluted?"

"Sherlock, I know you've been, er, stressed lately, but—"

"Look, the evidence suggests it. I saw—"

"Sorry to interrupt, boys, but I'm afraid it's urgent." Drew was standing in the doorway. _Of all people, at all times_, thought Lestrade.

"You see, I've caught the Killer Cat," said Drew.

Sherlock stared across the muddy Thames and listened as behind him Drew explained her methods to a rapt Lestrade. She had caught the perpetrator, sure enough, and everything lined up as Sherlock always supposed it would. The corpses had been scavenged by the criminal and deposited on the banks of the Thames. The criminal, a middle-aged man who was clearly out of his mind, had been discovered by Drew laying one of the bodies out right where Sherlock had predicted the next crime would occur. And the rats were merely a symptom of a diseased mind that, unable to find another outlet, had taken to tormenting the famous consulting detective—hence the matching coat, and the mysterious tobacco ash.

All of his suspicions had been correct.

Well, all but the most important one.

He had been stupid—so, so stupid. He should have known. He should have _known_ that his "hunch" was mere bias. He should have _known_ that Drew was not the killer. He should never have let sentiment into his life.

He should never have let John Watson into his life.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. It was too soon for that line of thought. First he would go home and lie on the sofa for weeks, losing weight and worrying Mrs. Hudson. He would inflict dark times on himself, so that when they ended and he reentered the world it would seem bright by comparison. He would let himself go so that when he pulled himself together again the loss of John would no longer tear him apart.

But first, he had an apology to make.

"Excellent detective work, Ms Sanselle." He deliberately kept his voice nonchalant. It was an easy act, effortless. Lestrade was completely fooled. Drew, not so much, but then again she was a "human polygraph" or whatever nonsense.

"I'm just so happy to get this resolved," said Lestrade with infuriating cheeriness. Belatedly, he seemed to remember who he was talking to. "Are you okay, Sherlock? Going to be back at work tomorrow?"

"Actually, I'll be taking a brief holiday. Get out of London for a bit, breathe some fresh air." The excuse came easily to his tongue. It was the simplest explanation; no need to explain that his "holiday" would only encompass the parlor sofa.

"Excellent!" chirruped Lestrade. "Now, Ms Sanselle, if you'll just help me with some paperwork…"

Irene Adler had had enough. Sure, John's move had been a blow. And sure, it was a shame that Drew had beat Sherlock to the case. But that did not justify giving up on life. Which was what her flatmate, to all intents and purposes, seemed to have done.

Four days of moping on the sofa was more than anyone needed, by Irene's reckoning. Yes, now was the time for action.

Irene Adler was on the warpath.

_We are approaching the end of this story, ladies and gentlemen. Stay tuned, because I at least am ready for what's coming in the next chapter._


	14. Chapter 14: Thanks to Irene

Chapter 14: Thanks to Irene

John Watson winced at the hammering on his bedroom door. "Now's not really a good time," he said dully.

"Open up right now!" It was Irene, sounding peculiarly frantic. John leapt across the room and wrenched open the door in an instant. Had something happened to Sherlock?

"Hello, John," said Irene, suddenly cool and collected. "Do come with me, if you'd be so kind."

"Is everything all right?"

"I've had enough, that's all."

"Enough of what?"

Irene wiggled an eyebrow, and that was all the explanation John could get out of her.

He knew he was in for it as soon as Irene dragged him into the cab. "Baker Street," she told the cabbie, and John felt his heart plummet.

"What—"

"Be silent, John. All will be painfully clear in good time."

He asked her one more time, as she fumbled with her keys outside of 221B. But she just smiled and shook her head. John found himself terribly nervous.

Sherlock lay on the sofa. John had expected as much, once Drew had told him about the rather unfortunate resolution of the Killer Cat case. But he hadn't expected the windows to be closed and the flat to be cold and lifeless. It put Irene's concern into a different light.

"Sit up," said Irene, prodding the prone Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored her.

"Sit up, or I am going to make you sit up." Her voice was icy, and John watched in surprise as Sherlock pulled himself upright like a resentful child. His eyes flicked over to John and then darted away again.

"Apologize," Irene said.

Sherlock gazed at the closed blinds.

"Apologize to John, you oaf, because by God he deserves it."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He looked so fragile it made John ache, and when a solitary tear slid down Sherlock's cheek John felt an answering tear trickle down his.

"I'm sorry, John," said Sherlock.

"Now your turn," said Irene, and John found himself on the receiving end of her glare. "This is as much your fault as his. Say you're sorry."

John cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. For… for everything."

"Excellent!" Irene said, suddenly cheerful. "Now, I am going to go speak with this Drew person, and when I come back I expect you two to be proper chums again. Got it?"

Silence fell in the little flat after she slammed the door. Unsteady, John sat down in the armchair that once had been his, still dazed by what had just happened. "How are you?" he said awkwardly.

"Wretched," said Sherlock with a small smile, and in that response—in the tiny glint of humor in Sherlock's eyes—John saw the path ahead. _This could really work,_ he thought. _We could really be friends again_.

"Personally, I'd call myself miserable," John said.

Sherlock nodded mock-seriously. "A noble adjective."

_Stilted conversation. Well, at least it's a start._

Molly Hooper was wiping down the steel morgue table when Irene Adler strode through the door.

"Hello, Molly," Irene said. "I was told that Drew Sanselle is somewhere around?"

"I'm right here," said Drew from where she stood at the other end of the room, filling out paperwork to resolve that dreadful Killer Cat case. Molly shuddered. She didn't know much about Drew, or much about Irene. But the two of them in one room seemed… explosive.

"Good afternoon, Ms Sanselle," Irene said.

"Good afternoon, Ms Adler."

Molly could never read people quite perfectly, but did Drew Sanselle sound… flirty?

"I've come to talk to you about the whole Sherlock business," Irene said, and Molly's ears perked up involuntarily.

"Ah yes. I have to say, I'm a bit ashamed of myself," Drew said. "I didn't expect that to go quite the way it went."

"Well, thank God you stepped in and solved the case before he made too much a fool of himself," said Irene. "But what on earth were you thinking?"

Drew heaved a sigh. "What can I say? I couldn't help teasing him a little bit. He's… irresistible. And with a weakness so obvious—and so charming—as John Watson, how could I contain myself?"

"I have to say, I'd never forgive you if it didn't seem like they'll soon be back together again. But you behaved quite poorly, Ms Sanselle."

"Girls will do crazy things for a crush," said Drew Sanselle, raising one eyebrow. "But it seems that all three of us have a bit of a thing for that strange man. Perhaps we should start a fan club."

"Oh no," said Irene Adler. "I promise you I am quite over him."

"Guess it's just you and me, Miss Hooper," said Drew, though her eyes remained fixed on Irene.

Molly, blinking, felt that she was somewhat out of her depth.

Back in 221B, a thick silence had settled over the room. It wasn't a bad silence, per se, but John found himself loath to disturb it.

And then Sherlock began to weep uncontrollably.

John sat next to him on the little sofa, awkwardly patting his former flatmate on the back. He wondered how much damage he'd done to Sherlock by leaving so suddenly. It would be hard, he realized, to lose one's only friend in a single afternoon for reasons one wasn't quite capable of understanding. God knows he'd be heartbroken if Sherlock ever did that to him.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, wiping at his tears with the sleeve of his dressing gown. "It's just… it's been hard for me since you've left, John. To have accepted human companionship as a necessity, and then to have it disappear—"

"But you've had Irene!" said John. "And Mrs. Hudson!"

"Yes, of course," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "But it's not the _same_, John. I mean… It's just… It's not the same. I've even found myself dangling prepositions." He chuckled, a tear-streaked self-conscious little laugh, and John found himself laughing too. There were tears pouring down his cheeks, though he couldn't say how they got there, and next thing he knew he was in Sherlock's arms. He wondered, for a brief second, how he'd gotten _there_, but evidently it was the right place for him to be.

And when his lips ended up on Sherlock's, well, that was the right place for them to be.


End file.
